


February 5th, 2007: Aftermath

by Jane0Doh



Series: The Hand of God [9]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post Tobias Hankel, post abduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: The one where Sam and Spencer reunite.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester
Series: The Hand of God [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/958443
Comments: 18
Kudos: 110





	February 5th, 2007: Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> A little fanservice-y interlude, with some angst wrapped in (because hello, it's me), from after Spencer gets home from Georgia.
> 
> XOXO  
> -JD

**February 6 th @ 10pm: **

The soft thump of bare feet hitting the wooden floor above pulled Sam from his book, long before Spencer made his way down the stairs.

Sam had his nose stuck in East of Eden, taking a preliminary break before throwing himself back into his studies. He had a rheumatology rotation coming up, and he needed to prepare, but he’d been rather distracted the past few days, what with his boyfriends kidnapping and all. He managed to eke out a few hours of cramming while Spencer slept, though he found himself sneaking upstairs to Spencer’s bedroom loft to check he was still breathing— that he was real, alive, and _there—_ more often than he’d like to admit.

It was really throwing a wrench in his study plan.

So, not long after Spencer had fallen asleep, Sam gave up on pulmonology and instead buried himself in the assorted works of Steinbeck, starting with Grapes of Wrath and moving down the chronology from there.

He’d not even considered turning on the television. He’d barely moved from the sofa at all, lest he woke Spencer before he was ready. There was nothing Sam wanted less than to disturb his lover, not after the ordeal he’d been through, and since putting him to bed, he’d been counting down the hours with mounting anxiety, worrying more and more that he may need to wake him up.

He’d been asleep half a day, at this point.

When Sam took him home from the hospital, Spencer had gone from being cognisant and affable, to dazed and withdrawn. He sleepwalked his way through outpatient forms and NDA’s, unable to entrust the lot of it to Sam. But his exhaustion caught up with him on the way to the car, and as they walked, he’d let Sam lead him by the hand, trailing after him like a lost duckling, so tired he could barely pick his feet up off the floor.

He fell asleep against the window, his forehead lolling against the glass as they drove over dips and gullies in the road, the streetlights waving over the anxious creases between his eyes, not softened by sleep. His breathing had been steady, loud in the quiet cabin of the car, and when he shivered Sam hadn’t hesitated to drape his jacket over his shoulders, and crank the heat.

While Spencer seemed entirely out of it, Sam found himself hyper-aware of everything he did, conscious or otherwise. Every movement of his eyes, every half-sound that passed his lips, down to the minute shifts of his fingers, Sam was keenly in tune with. Whether it was helpful or aggravating, Spencer didn’t say, but Sam had also stopped asking. He just adjusted Spencer’s jacket when it slipped down his shoulders, and instead of checking if he needed help up the stairs to his apartment, Sam simply hefted him into his arms bridal style, only setting him down at the door to his flat when he needed to fish out his keys.

Spencer looked so lost when he walked into his home. He wandered through his living room like he didn’t recognize it, and when Sam asked if he wanted to go to sleep, he looked at him with big, sad eyes, as though he didn’t remember how, and that broke Sam’s heart in two.

He’d let Sam lead him up the stairs without a word. Like a child would, he let Sam clothe him, stripping him of his loaner hospital scrubs and swaddling him in his pajamas, before gently guiding him into his unmade bed. Spencer clung to him for a while, unspeaking, merely locking his arms around Sam’s waist and using his lap as a pillow, and Sam let him, getting as comfortable as he could bent up against the headboard. Sam took the time to just listen to his breathing, pulling Spencer close so he could feel his heat against his skin, and bury his nose in his hair, inhaling deep the scent of hospital shampoo and antiseptic.

A million and one different questions hung on the tip of his tongue, but they died there, too. He knew nothing of what happened to Spencer during his brief captivity, and Spencer hadn’t been inclined to share. And while he wanted to respect his right to silence, inside Sam was afraid: afraid of saying the wrong thing, or doing the wrong thing, and hurting him when he was already beaten down.

Sam knew better than anyone what it was like to suffer something traumatic, and not wanting (or being able) to talk about it. He could hardly mention his dad without feeling the need to vomit, and that all happened over a decade ago. Spencer had only been home for less than a day—he couldn’t fathom asking him to relive what was still so fresh and raw, just for the sake of Sam’s wellbeing. That would be beyond selfish.

But the silence, especially from Spencer the perpetual chatterbox, was more disconcerting than Sam could bear. From the moment they met, Spencer had never really stopped talking, and Sam never wanted him to. His desire to say whatever stepped into the forefront of his mind was a testament to how much he trusted Sam, and being allowed to glimpse into his odd little world was a gift Sam was eternally grateful for. And while he understood why Spencer didn’t want to speak at the moment, Sam felt as though he’d lost his foothold.

He didn’t know what Spencer was feeling, what he was thinking, if he wasn’t speaking.

If he couldn’t hear the lilt of his voice, Sam was blind.

Spencer had eventually drifted into a deep, listless sleep, drooling onto Sam’s shirt, with his fingers knotted in the waist of his sweatpants, but Sam hadn’t the strength to leave him. He’d not bothered to turn on the lights, knowing that Spencer would be going straight to sleep, but the moonlight that filtered in through the gaps in Spencer’s makeshift curtains was enough to fill the room. Sam watched him longer than he’d care to admit, running his fingers through his soft, downy hair, and tracking the rise and fall of his chest, guided only by the gentle glow from outside, and his own muscle memory.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he couldn’t help but notice the rope burns around Spencer’s wrists, and the vicious bruising on his right bicep. Sam stroked his thumb gently over the mottled cuts on his cheek, and the remnants of a black eye. He was careful to avoid the stitches in his scalp, and even more so to not wonder how the nasty cut got there in the first place. He skirted his palm over Spencer’s injured shoulder, and frowned down at the curve of his inner elbow, moving his hand towards the pattern of discolouration nestled there—

Spencer’s hand clamped down over his.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, blinking his bleary, tired eyes. Sam stammered, and Spencer squinted at him, his fingers still locked around Sam’s wrist. “Were you,” he paused, glancing down at Sam’s captive hand, then back up at him curiously, “cataloguing my injuries?”

“Maybe,” Sam said.

“Why?”

“I’m a doctor?” Sam tried, but Spencer wasn’t buying it. “I don’t—” sighing, Sam dropped his hand into his lap, “I’m worried about you.”

He really hadn’t expected Spencer’s expression to crumple, and for him to murmur, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sam said, his grip on Spencer’s waist tightening, “you don’t need to apologize for anything.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?” Spencer dropped his head back onto Sam’s chest, and he slid his hand down Sam’s wrist to tangle their fingers together.

“You’re tired,” Sam said, letting Spencer manipulate his hand as he saw fit, locking their fingers, and pressing their palms against each other, “for one. You’re also home for the first time in days, after not knowing if…”

He trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence. So, Spencer did it for him, “Not knowing if I’d ever be here again?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “that.”

Spencer was quiet then, for a long while. He stared out through the gap in his curtains, listening to the whirring of traffic outside the window, the steady thumping of Sam’s heart in his chest, and if Sam hadn’t been so in-tune with his breathing at that point, he might have thought he’d drifted back to sleep.

Then suddenly he sat up, his hands against Sam’s chest, and his knees on either side of Sam’s hips, pressing into the mattress. He leaned forwards, so close Sam could feel his breath fanning against his skin, with the strangest look in his eyes. He sat there, completely unreadable, so incredibly silent, and before Sam could react, before he could ask what was the matter, Spencer kissed him.

Spencer’s lips trembled against his own, not out of fear, but desperation. He was as desperate to touch as he was, Sam realized, to reassure himself that this was real, that he was here, alive. When he exhaled against Sam’s lips it was with a sound so soft, yet so visceral, that Sam couldn’t help himself—he surged up from the bed, looping his arms around Spencer’s waist and crushing him to his chest.

It was as if the dam had burst, and every worry, every fear and anxiety that had welled up over the course of Spencer’s absence poured out into that one kiss. He wrapped his hand around his throat just to feel the blood pumping under Spencer’s skin, and Spencer canted towards it, pressing into his palm with a barely there, contented sigh, his entire body melting into Sam’s bruising hold. He slid his hands around Sam’s neck once he’d wormed his arms between them, and he lay them there, not pushing away, just feeling. His skin was soft, his breath was warm against Sam’s lips, and his pulse was a steady, reassuring beat under Sam’s fingers, and when they broke away, they didn’t go far.

Resting his forehead against Sam’s, Spencer pushed back against his supporting grasp, putting some distance between them. Enough that he could unwind one of Sam’s arms, pull it between them, and guide his hand to rest on his chest, just above his sternum.

“I’m alright,” Spencer whispered, looking into Sam’s eyes as he let him feel his heartbeat, the strong pounding beneath his breast comforting, and yet simultaneously brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them back, and Spencer gripped his hand tighter, his thigh’s flexing astride Sam’s hips, “I’m alive, and I’m here. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Sam cocked his brow up at that bald-faced lie.

“Right now,” Spencer amended, with a roll of his eyes.

And that eye roll, a gesture so quintessentially Spencer, had Sam finally cracking a smile. It was enough to prove to him that while things still felt so wrong, that at the end of the day, Spencer was still just Spencer, and if he said he was fine, then that was good enough for Sam. He could wait to hear the rest.

Afterwards, Spencer had curled up against Sam’s side once again, this time tucking in like he meant it. And in just a few moments, Sam heard his breathing even out, his inhales deeper and his exhales whistling through his nose as he finally fell asleep. He extricated himself as best he could, and tiptoed down the stairs, only coming up again when he needed a new book, or felt compelled to check in on him, and since Spencer slept like the dead, Sam hadn’t seen him move since.

Until now that was, as he looked up from his book to see Spencer padding down the stairs.

He rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his pyjamas, his bare toes curling at the foot of the stairs. Looking around the room like he was unsure of where he was, Spencer fixed his sleepy gaze at Sam on the couch, his mussed and ruffled hair an absolute rats’ nest atop his head.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Sam said, snapping his book shut and laying it on the nearby coffee table, “how are you feeling?”

“Rested.” Spencer croaked, his voice rough with sleep, “Hungry.” He glanced out the window, frowning at the darkened city beyond it, “How long was I asleep?”

“Sixteen hours.”

“Six—” Spencer sputtered, “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“I tried to wake you,” Sam said, stretching the truth a little bit, “but you weren’t having any of it. Besides, I figured you needed it. You probably didn’t get much sleep when…”

He trailed off, unable to voice the rest of that sentence, but Spencer understood. It was the elephant in the room, and he danced around it gracefully, curling his arms around himself and muttering, “I got more sleep than you’d think.”

“None of it restful,” Sam added.

Spencer shook his head, “No, you’re right about that.” He pointed to the empty spot beside Sam, on the couch, “Can I?”

Shuffling over, Sam held his arm out, letting Spencer curl against his side, his head resting against his chest, and his arm flung across Sam’s stomach.

“You’re warm,” Spencer said, burrowing further into his side.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s nice. For a while I…”

Frowning, Sam glanced down at Spencer as he trailed off into silence, staring off in the direction of the window, but not really seeing it. He knew that look intimately, as it was the same face he made whenever he was trying not to remember something from his childhood. Something he didn’t want to face, but which kept rearing its ugly head, as those things often did.

“Hey,” Sam jostled Spencer’s shoulder to bring him back to the present, and when he looked up at him, Sam asked, “you know you can talk about it, right?”

Spencer immediately looked back out the window, his voice clipped, “I don’t want to.”

“Well, you don’t need to talk to me, though I’d be happy to listen.” He tried to keep it light—Spencer had only been home for so short a time. But he knew from experience that the longer he kept on the kid gloves, the harder it was going to be to have these conversations. And none of that would help Spencer. “You should talk to someone, though. Maybe a therapist, or—”

“I don’t need a therapist,” Spencer interrupted, “I’m fine.”

_Bullshit_ , Sam thought. “You were held captive and tortured for three days by a serial killer,” was what he said aloud, “No one expects you to be fine.”

“Then I’m living up to my reputation of defying expectations, because I am.” Sitting up, Spencer turned to face him fully, letting Sam get a good look at him in the light, for the first time since he got home, “Sam, I appreciate your candidness, but I don’t need it. I promise you, the one thing that will make me feel better right now is to lay here, safe in my home, knowing that you’re with me, and you’re not going anywhere.”

Despite all the sleep, he still looked tired, and Sam had a feeling that wasn’t going away any time soon. The bags under his eyes, which to be fair were just a permanent fixture of his face, stood a stark contrast against his pale skin. He looked thinner than normal, his complexion dull, and like this, Sam could clearly see the bruising on his face. He got clocked several times, clearly, and pistol whipped, going by the gash on his temple, the same sort of slice Sam stitched up for Dean too many times to count.

But he was here, and not in the mood to talk about what happened. So, Sam was hard pressed to push him any further.

“I’m not,” Sam said, running his fingers through Spencer’s hair, cupping the back of his head, and guiding him forwards, until he was curled up against his chest once again, “going anywhere, I mean. And I won’t. At least, not until you get sick of me.”

Spencer sighed happily, burrowing into Sam’s side, and curling his legs underneath him. “So far, so good,” he murmured, sounding so pleased, so at ease that Sam couldn’t help but tuck his chin and kiss the crown of his head, “I promise I’m not going to break, so can we just go back? Pretend that none of that horrible shit ever happened and that I never even went to Georgia in the first place? Can we do that?”

“We can try.” Sam glanced at him, “Do I have to pretend that you never told me you love me?”

“Perhaps, but I can say it again.”

“Yeah?”

Graceful in a way you’d never expect him to be, if you only knew him outside of this space, Spencer climbed into his lap. His matching pyjama set, the kind of thing a man three times his age should be wearing, not someone as young and handsome as him, hung from Spencer’s shoulders loosely, the pants riding low on his hips as Sam steadied him. And when he was settled, his knees bracketing Sam’s hips, he looped his arms around Sam’s neck and ducked in close, his shirt drooping off his left shoulder as he pressed their foreheads together, looking up at him with big, soulful eyes.

“I love you,” he said, so sincerely it took Sam’s breath away, “Sam, I love you.”

Sam’s grip on his hips tightened, “Spencer.”

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice so soft, his expression so earnest.

“You have no idea—” Sam breathed, overwhelmed.

“I love—”

God, he couldn’t take it.

Grabbing Spencer’s head in his hands, Sam closed the distance between them, and Spencer sighed against his lips. He kissed him deeply, thrilling when Spencer’s lips parted beneath his. They just fit, they always fit like this, and the heat of his mouth, the happy little sounds he was making, and the firm weight of his body against Sam’s almost brought tears to his eyes.

He could have lost this— but he didn’t. Spencer was here, alive and in his arms, pulling him closer and smiling against lips as Sam whimpered, crushed under the depth of his love for him.

“You’re too much,” Sam confessed, his heart pounding as Spencer gripped at his waist, shoving his hands past the hem of his shirt to press his palms against Sam’s overheated skin, “You’re everything, I—I love you so much.”

“I gathered,” Spencer replied, before capturing Sam’s lips again with a brazen moan.

His textbooks long forgotten, Sam was content to busy himself with the young man in his lap, enveloping Spencer in his arms. Spencer gripped at his biceps, his kisses heated, his plush, honied lips an ambrosia against his tongue, and when Sam flexed his arms pointedly, Spencer laughed, a sweet, musical sound that banished all thought from Sam’s mind. Everything but that same, resounding mantra that had been on repeat since he saw Spencer swaddled in that hospital bed, battered but alive:

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

“I need you,” Spencer said, and Sam opened his eyes, their noses bumping, so close he could feel Spencer’s breath puff against his cheeks.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his unwillingness to hurt him, to push Spencer too far, too fast, stilling his hands.

But Spencer nodded enthusiastically, pulling the hem of Sam’s tee shirt up so he could rip it over his head, and toss it to the floor behind him. “Yes,” he breathed, his eyes shuttering as he kissed him teasingly, and when he leaned forwards, Sam could feel his half-hard cock throb against his stomach.

It made his mouth water, his blood boiling as he pitched his hips towards the side, depositing Spencer onto his back on the couch, and following him down.

He covered him with his body, his broad shoulders both pinning Spencer to the couch and shielding him from the rest of the room, satisfying a base, protective urge that swelled in his chest. Spencer panted beneath him, his eyes bright, his kiss swollen lips parted softly around each breath, and he pawed at Sam’s chest, trying to bring him down, urge him closer, banish the scant distance between them and bury himself beneath Sam’s larger frame. It stoked something primal inside of him, and Sam flattened Spencer to the couch, from hip to chest, swallowing Spencer’s moans as he kissed him, as Spencer let his legs fall open, welcoming him in.

Trading sloppy kisses by lamplight, Spencer cradled Sam in his arms, his thigh’s spread wide around his hips. He dragged his dull nails across Sam’s back, drawing hypnotic circles over his shoulders, down the length of his spine, and when Sam shifted forwards, bumping their hips together, Spencer gripped him fiercely, holding him there.

Spencer whined, throwing his head back and staring up at him with heavy lidded eyes, a charming flush rising against his cheeks as Sam thrust forwards again, grinding their hips together, his arousal hot and hard against Sam’s own. “I need you,” he reiterated, his tongue pushing against his lower lip as Sam cupped his cheek, his thumb brushing against Spencer’s temple, content to just grind against him and watch him as he fell to pieced.

“You have me,” Sam replied, kissing him again, and again, lightly this time, watching every emotion that flashed across his face, as his expression crumpled in delight when Sam shifted, shoving a strong, muscled thigh between Spencer’s legs to give him something to grind against.

“Oh, god,” Spencer groaned, bearing down against Sam’s thigh, his eyes fluttering shut. His arms trembled around Sam’s waist and he caught his lower lip between his teeth, and Sam felt the air knocked from his lungs as he watched him fall to pieces, beautiful and tangible and real.

Ducking his head, Sam kissed down his long, elegant neck, spurred on by the sweet, reedy noises Spencer was gasping as he moved against him. He nibbled at the soft, thin skin, just above his pulse, Spencer’s heart beating rabbit quick against his lips, and he shifted his weight to one arm so he could unbutton Spencer’s sleep shirt, wanting to get his hands on that firm, pale chest, to drag his mouth down his flat stomach, to—

Spencer stiffened the moment he popped the first button open, his hands flying down and grabbing Sam’s in a stranglehold as he cried, “No!”

Sam was off him in seconds, sitting back on his heels on the other side of the couch, his hands in the air so he could see them. So that Spencer could see he wasn’t a threat, that he wasn’t going to hurt him, and that action alone had him mentally kicking himself.

Reckless, he thought, that was so irresponsible of him! Spencer had himself pressed back against the arm of the couch, gripping his shirt closed, his knuckles white with how tight his hands were clenched. His eyes were wide, any trace of arousal banished as he panted now from panic, from an all-encompassing, sudden terror that he hadn’t expected, and Sam should have _known better._

“I asked,” Spencer said quickly, before Sam could apologize, seemingly trying to cut off whatever discussion they were going to have before it happened.

“You did,” Sam agreed, frowning as Spencer shoved his hair back roughly, his eyes wild, angry with himself for not being able to control his reaction. It was familiar in the worst way possible, and Sam forced himself to sit still, to stay on his side of the couch and not go to him, to wrap Spencer up in his arms the way he wanted to. He’d already messed up by letting himself lose control, by going too far too fast, and that was his fault, not Spencer’s.

He knew from experience this was going to happen; Spencer was going to want to go back to normal, as quickly as possible, because it would mean he could bypass processing what happened to him, theoretically sweeping it under the rug. But that was never going to happen. Whatever went on in that shack in Georgia, Spencer was going to be dealing with the ramifications of it for some time, whether he wanted to pretend it never happened or not, and that was normal.

It was natural.

Sam knew that, because he’d lived through it himself.

“I’m fine,” Spencer reiterated, trying to convince himself as much as Sam.

“I know you want to be,” Sam said, shrugging off Spencer’s frustrated glare as best he could, “but you’re not. You _can’t_ be, Spence, it’s too soon.” Spencer shook his head, curling his arms around himself again, and Sam had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from going to him, “You know this, you study psychology, you know how the mind processes trauma—”

“I’m not a victim!” Spencer snapped, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking so pitifully small that it broke Sam’s heart, “I’m not, I’m _fine_!”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, shifting a little closer, reassured when Spencer didn’t flinch or try to move away. He gestured towards himself, “I’m a victim too, baby. I was tortured and abused by my dad for twelve years, and at first, I didn’t want to accept it either. But I promise you, nothing that happened will change how I feel about you.”

“Nothing happened!” Dropping his head into his hands, Spencer’s voice muffled against his palms, “He hit me, he fractured my ankle, and he threatened to shoot me, that’s _it!_ I help people who have gone through ten times that every single day, and I have been for years. I shouldn’t—”

Sam shuffled closer, tentatively resting a hand on Spencer’s knee. “It’s not a competition,” he said, squeezing reassuringly, “you know that. Spencer, you know _all_ of this. Its hard right now, but once you’re in a place where you can be kinder to yourself, you’ll see that. Right now, though, I think you still need more time.”

Spencer jerked back, like Sam’s touch had burned him. “I know what I need,” he said, his tone clipped and closed off as he stood up from the couch, rearranging his clothes and refusing to look Sam in the eye, “I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I need the bathroom,” Spencer interrupted, and before Sam could get a word in edgewise, he was gone, slamming, and locking the door behind him.

_That could have gone better._

With a defeated groan, Sam flopped back onto the couch, his feet hanging off the edge as he stared miserably up at the ceiling. He could hear the water from the sink running, and could picture Spencer pacing in there, his thoughts running a mile a minute, and all Sam could do was wait for him to come back out.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, getting Spencer reacclimated to normal life. Glad as he was to have him back, overjoyed, and relieved, and grateful from the moment he saw him at the hospital, Sam knew they were going to have their work cut out for them. If there was anything in this world he was uniquely informed about, it was trauma recovery. He’d lived it, he’d seen his brother reject it, and day in, day out at work, he met people who were amidst it.

And while he understood that recovering from things like this take time, and hard work, and even more pain, he had assumed that Spencer, with what he does for a living, and that big, beautiful brain of his, would understand that, too.

He’d expected him to be a little closed off, maybe evasive.

He hadn’t expected outright _denial_.

It was still fresh, Sam told himself. It was only his second night back, the first one spent in Bethesda General under the watchful eye of the FBI and Sam’s coworkers. Maybe he just needed more time?

Picking up one of his forgotten textbooks, Sam made a pitiful attempt at studying as he waited for Spencer to come back out. But as the minutes ticked by, his eyes grew heavier, and soon he was passed out, flat on his back with the Oxford Handbook of Rheumatology covering his face.

And when Spencer eventually woke him up, Sam didn’t think twice about the fact it was two hours later.

Because he was suddenly very busy with his half naked, and much more amenable, boyfriend in his lap.

He must have turned the light out, because the room was now dark, save for the streetlights shining through the windows, and the glow of the clock in the kitchen. It was quarter past two in the morning, the apartment quiet save for the sound of passing traffic, not a peep from the neighbours nor any noise in the hall, but the air was thick with expectation, and the quiet hum of their collective breathing.

“I thought you’d have gone to bed,” Spencer said quietly, placing the textbook he’d plucked off Sam’s face onto the coffee table, his bare stomach flexing as he leaned backwards to reach.

They were back where they’d started, with Spencer sitting in Sam’s lap, though this time, he’d not just woken up from a sixteen-hour nap, and he was far less clothed. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging from the curve of his elbows, and wrapping around his back where it had fallen from his shoulders. The pyjama pants were gone, Spencer’s bare thigh’s pressed against Sam’s naked sides, his boxer briefs, and Sam’s sweatpants the only barriers between them. He had his hands flattened against Sam’s stomach, his long, nimble fingers toying with the trail of coarse hair that lead from his navel to the waist of his pants, and when he glanced up, catching Sam’s concerned gaze in his own, the heat in his eyes was electrifying.

It was like night and day, the way Spencer’s mood had shifted, and Sam didn’t think it possible to be more worried than he was.

“I was waiting for you,” Sam replied, not moving from where he lay, even as Spencer walked his fingertips up to his chest, shifting forwards on his hips, “and I must have fallen asleep.”

“You were snoring,” Spencer said with a wry grin, “but that’s nothing new, I guess.”

“I don’t snore.”

“That you know of.”

“Spence,” Sam caught his hands, holding them still as he looked up at him worriedly, “look, I don’t think we should—”

“He tried to make me confess my sins.”

Spencer’s voice, though quiet, sounded like a gavel in the silence of the room, and Sam snapped his mouth shut, his blood running cold.

He didn’t need to ask who Spencer was talking about, and Spencer didn’t extrapolate. “He tied me to a chair, beat me, made me play Russian roulette with a bullet he called God’s will, and tortured me into confessing my sins, so he could justify killing me,” Spencer said, his eyes downcast, looking at their joined hands, “because he thought he was a man of God.”

Sam gripped his hands tighter, and kept quiet.

“But the only thing I ever talked about, when he finally broke me down enough to talk, was _you_.” Spencer glanced up at him then, his brow furrowed anxiously, “I said that I loved you, and he latched on to that, the fact that I was in a romantic relationship with a man. He called me a sodomite, a faggot, told me to repent and renounce my sins, or he’d kill me—which I knew was nonsense, he was a sadistic psychopath having a mental breakdown, he was going to kill me anyways.”

“What did you tell him?” Sam asked, his voice tight with anger, indignation on Spencer’s behalf.

“I told him that any God who would say what I felt for you was wrong wasn’t one I wanted anything to do with,” Spencer said, and knocked the breath from Sam’s lungs in the process, swelling with pride and belated horror, “and then I told him to go to hell.”

Surging up from the couch, Sam wrapped himself around Spencer, swaddling him in his arms and crushing him to his chest as he sat with him still in his lap. His head on his shoulder, he could only hear Spencer’s surprised gasp, but he felt as he returned his embrace, his arms winding around Sam’s waist and gripping him tight, so incredibly tight, like he was afraid he might disappear. Sam inhaled deeply, the smell of hospital soap and Spencer’s laundry detergent filling his nose, the smell of home, and comfort, safety. His soft hair tickled Sam’s forehead, his pulse raced under his cheek, and Sam held him until he could muster the words, “I’m so fucking proud of you, you brave bastard.”

Spencer laughed out loud, and gripped Sam tighter, pressing his face into the side of his neck.

“I was exhausted, and I was done listening to him,” Spencer said, kissing Sam’s neck lightly, just for the sake of it, “and you were the only thing that kept me going. I needed to get home to you, to tell you that I loved you, to see your face, hear your voice.” He sat back, cradling Sam’s face in his hands as he looked at him, his eyes glistening in the moonlight, a small, sweet smile twisting at his lips, “And now you’re here. You’re real, I’m alive, and you’re _here_.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam swore.

“I know that, up here,” Spencer pointed to his temple, the grabbed Sam’s hand and flattened his palm to his bare chest, just above Spencer’s heart, so he could feel it beating just like the night before, “but I need to feel it in here. I need _you_. I need to know this is real, that this isn’t some sadistic dream, and I’m not still tied up in that cabin with—”

Spencer surged forwards, and Sam didn’t stop him as he kissed him, desperate and needy, his heart pounding under Sam’s outstretched palm.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sam said when they broke apart, Spencer’s lips still hovering inches from his own, "I don't want to do or say the wrong thing, and put you in a bad place."

“You won’t,” Spencer told him, cupping the back of his head as he kissed his cheek down to his jaw, his breath skipping across Sam’s throat, heat prickling across his skin, “you can’t.”

God, he knew better.

But then Spencer, with his cheeks flushed red, his eyes hazy and heavy-lidded, his thick, dark lashes casting shadows across the heights of his cheeks, looked through him and pleaded, “Make love to me? Please, Sam I need you so badly.”

How could he say no?

Spencer folded easily, loose limbed and pliable as Sam pressed him back against the couch, letting him keep his shirt on like he clearly wanted, but stripping them of the rest of their clothes. He sank into the cushions, his gaze weighty as Sam settled between his thighs, kissing him languidly as Sam pressed into him with thick, unyielding fingers. He bloomed open for him, spreading his legs wider as Sam filled him, his arms relaxed against the couch on either side of his head, his lower lip pinched between his teeth as Sam worked his way inside of him, the air around them heady with desire.

“You feel so good,” Spencer sighed against his lips as Sam kissed him, full to bursting and clenching tantalizingly around Sam's cock, his legs curling loosely astride his hips, “I thought I’d never have this again, have you inside me, _Sam_ —” he gasped, his hands coming up to grip at Sam’s biceps as Sam tentatively flexed his hips, “Please, just take me.”

He was so hot, wrapped so tightly around him it made Sam’s head spin, and when he thrust into him, bullying himself deeper into his pliant body, Spencer trembled with delight. He was always responsive, always so effortlessly sensual, but this time, being mashed into the cushions of his couch by Sam’s broad, strong body, Spencer was something else. He gasped, his breath punching out of him as Sam hooked his legs over his arms, folding him nearly in half as Sam leisurely pumped his hips, losing himself in the feel of his lover, in every sweet sound that tumbled past his lips.

When Sam sat back on his heels, pulling Spencer’s hips into his lap, merely grinding into him, Spencer watched him headily. His gaze was smoldering, and Spencer whined high in his throat as he watched Sam move between his thighs, gliding his fingers across his abs as they flexed, the vee of his hips, and his cheeks flushed bright red, his mouth slack as he panted his pleasure. He was completely lost in that moment, his mind empty, wholly enthralled with Sam, with everything he was doing, everything he was making him feel, and Sam was fascinated with him, stoking his desire, and bringing him higher with every jolt of his hips.

“You’re perfect,” Sam whispered, looping one of Spencer’s legs over his shoulder and kissing the inside of his knee, smiling when Spencer preened at the praise, “you’re so fucking perfect, Spence.”

Spencer beckoned him closer, and Sam folded without hesitation, flattening himself against Spencer with a long, wild moan. He kissed him desperately, swallowing every whine and whimper that Spencer breathed into his mouth, and Spencer held him so close, their bodies flush, sweat prickling between them, their movements frantic by comparison.

“God,” Spencer cried out, his back arching as Sam snapped his hips forwards, spreading him open, his toes curling as he pressed them into the couch. The heat building between them rose to a fever pitch, but he couldn’t tear himself away, couldn’t bear to move back, to get more leverage. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than tangle his hands in Spencer’s hair, holding himself up on his elbows as he kissed down the side of Spencer’s face, rocking into his lover at a languorous pace, reveling in the way Spencer just melted into his touch.

Spencer's expression crumpled, his brows knotting together as he gasped, and Sam pushed his bangs back from his face, ignoring his own pleasure, though it swam down his legs, oozing up his spine to tingle at the back of his skull. He was content just to watch Spencer fall apart, from just the feel of his cock, swollen and unyielding inside of him, the cool moonlight bathing him in an ethereal glow.

“Sam,” Spencer moaned, his hands scrabbling up his back, and he cracked open his eyes to meet Sam’s, their connection crackling and electric, sharing the same breath, the same rhythm, the same heartbeat. “I love you,” he whispered, running his fingertips down Sam’s sweaty cheek, their noses brushing as Sam rocked against him, rutting into him, panting fervidly as Spencer clenched around him, drawing him in with the clutch of his body, with the ardor in his gaze.

“I love you,” Sam replied, his voice cracking on a whimper, his orgasm coiling low in his belly, so soon, too soon, fuck, he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want this to end—

Spencer suddenly clutched at his arms, his fingers digging divots into his muscles as he choked out a gasp, his thighs trembling around Sam’s waist. He arched his back, and tried to turn his head, to bury his face in the cushion as he came, but Sam caught him by the cheek. Their foreheads pressed together, Sam shunted his hips forwards, shoving Spencer up the couch with the force of his thrusts as he pushed him over the edge, watching his face as he came apart at the seams, coming between them with a ragged sob in the shape of Sam’s name.

“I love you,” Spencer said breathlessly, clinging to him as he bore down, Sam’s voice failing him as he rutted into him like an animal, with a single-minded intent, his body singing with love for him. Sam wrapped his arms under Spencer’s back, pressing his face into his chest as he snapped his hips forwards, pressing, pushing, shoving into Spencer’s body, his thighs quaking, heat blooming across his groin.

He was lost to him, lost inside of him, as Spencer caressed his shoulders, soothing him even as he made love to him, and the sounds that tore from Sam’s throat were wounded and desperate, foreign even to his own ears. Sam held him close, their bodies nearly flush as he buried himself deep and stayed there, rolling his hips and Spencer just took it. He opened for him so beautifully, letting Sam take him deep in his core, his body molten hot and pliable, tight, and hot, and perfect, so perfect. There, in his arms, alive, and _his_ —

The noise that ripped from his throat would have been embarrassing under any other circumstances, especially since Spencer snorted a laugh at the sound of it, but Sam was too far gone to care. He shoved himself deep as he came, his arms tightening around Spencer’s waist, his fingers grappling at his sweat slick skin as wave after wave of white-hot pleasure cascaded over him, his thrusts slowing to a crawl. Groaning low in his throat, sloppily trailing kisses across Spencer’s chest, at least what he could reach from where he fell like a sack of potatoes, Sam coiled like a snake around his lover, longingly, not wanting to ever let him go.

“Christ, Sam,” Spencer murmured, his chest rumbling against Sam’s cheek, “you’re a _beast_.”

Sam laughed, kissing his sternum one last time before rising to his elbows, meeting Spencer’s slow, sated smile with one of his own. “You okay?” he asked, smoothing Spencer’s sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“More than,” Spencer replied, tugging him down for a long, slow kiss, “besides, that’s what I get for being a perpetual pillow princess.”

“I _like_ when you’re a pillow princess,” Sam replied, kissing Spencer’s bare shoulder and chuckling when Spencer swatted playfully at his.

Spencer nuzzled his temple, absently running his fingers up and down Sam’s spine as he lay on top of him, still buried inside of him, trying not to crush him under his weight. He sighed, letting his legs slump down to the couch, and Sam reached down his side with one hand, massaging his hip as he listened to his heartbeat, his pulse once again beating against his cheek—

A pulse that was far, _far_ too slow for what they just did.

Sam frowned, lifting himself up onto one elbow. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, tapping at Spencer’s cheek when it looked for a moment like he was falling asleep.

“Hmm?” Spencer cracked open his eyes, looking like he was seconds from passing out, despite being pinned under Sam on the couch, and a completely uncomfortable mess. “Yeah,” he muttered, his eyelids fluttering, “I’m just tired.”

Tired made sense; he’d had a rough week, and even sleeping for as long as he did wouldn’t make up for that. But Sam couldn’t resist ducking his head again to kiss his throat, unsubtly (if Spencer had been cognizant enough to notice) checking his pulse… and it was still way too slow.

When he looked back up however, he realized with amusement that had more pressing matters to attend to. Because Spencer was already fast asleep, snuffling softly underneath him on the couch, and Sam was loathe to wake him.

It was strange, and a little unnerving, but Sam decided it could wait. He’d much rather get him cleaned up and into bed first, preferably without bothering him too much. He had time to fret about his heartbeat, and besides, he knew he would be spending that night (morning now, actually) the same way he’d spent every night since Spencer came home.

Laying beside him, watching him sleep, and trying to convince himself that this was real.

He was real.

He was home.


End file.
